Help
by indigowaterbears
Summary: "Amelia." The voice called behind her. It was a prayer, a sleepwalker's lament, a whisper. It stopped her dead in her tracks, unable to go on. It was the kind of sound that would twist her stomach up in knots. "Amelia, please."
"Amelia." The voice called behind her. It was a prayer, a sleepwalker's lament, a whisper. It stopped her dead in her tracks, unable to go on. It was the kind of sound that would twist her stomach up in knots. "Amelia, please."

She turned around, coming face to face with the bluest eyes. Upon noticing the distraught look on his face she felt like crying. She felt like running up and wrapping him in a hug, never letting go. Just like in the trailer, the instinct had been to kneel in front of him and hold him, take away the pain, absorb it like a sponge. Only, she was soaked up entirely all on her own already, unable to offer that kind of help. The stench of alcohol was in her head, making it spin dangerously and the burning disappointment was making that a deadly mix.

His face wasn't much different from the one begging her not to leave, begging for another chance, willing that not to be the straw that broke the camels back. Between the two of them, the relationship resembled a lot a game of Jenga, taking away a block at the time, hoping against hope the tower wouldn't crumble to the ground.

"Please, can we talk?" his voice was strained, hoarse, spent. His eyes looked watery and red, his cheeks sunken and his shoulders slack. "Just a minute."

It was late, later than usual and not many people were around. Patients were asleep and nurses and doctors were nowhere to be seen. Amelia sighed. Owen needed someone to lean on, someone to hold him up, someone that wasn't her. She'd relapsed not much longer than a couple months before and, despite him not being there for her either, she was still in need herself of someone to lean on. She had leaned on him and he'd taken it, because his stupid male ego told him that's what prince charming does, help the damsel in distress. Now, though, it wasn't clear who was supposed to play prince charming.

Amelia nodded and stepped toward him, relishing in the relief that washed over him as she walked closer and closer. "Not here." She whispered making a beeline to an exam room across the hall.

As soon as Owen locked the door behind him Amelia turned, placing her bag on the counter facing him. He was staring down at his feet, hands gripping his sides so hard she could see his knuckles turn a sickly shade of white, his lips pressed so hard together. It was quite a sight.

"I'm so sorry." Amelia knew it was him talking, if only, because there was no one else in the room. it didn't sound like Owen, though. It sounded small and feeble and she wasn't used to that being Owen. "I'm so sorry, Amelia."

She couldn't count the times she'd had to utter that same apology. Not the, sorry I broke your favorite teacup or sorry I made your underwear turn pink or sorry I forgot you asked me to take the kids home. This was a different kind. She knew it all too well and she was more than grateful that he'd waited a couple of days before talking to her. Despite her experience and how she had supposedly matured over time, conscious of her disorder, at peace with leaving with her disorder, Amelia was still a person and the hurt she'd felt was directly proportional to how much she was anticipating that birthday lobster. The anger had boiled down, the disappointment was being taken over by understanding and the hurt would probably always be there.

"It's okay, Owen." She said, trying her best to smile at him. "It really is."

He shook his head violently, stepping forward. "No. No, it's not okay. I wanted that. I really wanted that… lobster." He finished with a chocked smile.

Amelia nodded, looking away for a second, trying to muster up all the sanity and strength she knew she was going to need. "You're right. It's not okay. Owen you are not okay."

"No, Amelia, I-"

"Stop." She walked up to him, standing about a foot too close and a foot too far from him. She took his flailing hand in hers and looked back up into his eyes. "You have PTSD. I'm not even going to try and figure out why you wouldn't tell me, but… god Owen." Her voice cracked. "If anything I'm a neurosurgeon. I know how hard it can be to live with it. I _know._ "

As he shook his head and tried to retract his hand from her grasp, Amelia held on tighter. "No. you don't get to do this. You don't get to pretend everything's okay, when it really isn't, you don't get to help me, but take away my chance to help you."

"You can't help me." Owen insisted, unable to meet her gaze, but letting his hand rest comfortably in hers, allowing himself to be supported, however little, for however shot time.

Amelia rolled her eyes. "You're right. I can't. I can't because if you decide to drink your weight in beer I won't be able to help. I can't. I already told you, I shouldn't even be dating at seventy days sober, but I figured I was better – _you_ convinced me I was better. You made me believe in myself."

Owen nodded. "But I can't help you, Owen. You need to help yourself."

There was a moment of silence. Neither wanting to move and break this moment. It was just _something_ , but it was definitely better than nothing. It seemed with them it was a never ending string of screw ups, alternating between the two of them. Maybe they were too broken to be together, too similar, too messed up to have a healthy relationship. Amelia loved him. He didn't know, maybe he'd never get to know, but she did. She was in love with him. She'd been in love like this once before and it lasted even less. Her longest relationship was James and despite it all, he was normal and stable and lovable. Maybe they were destined to find tape and glue people holding the pieces together, maybe their pieces put together weren't enough.

When the moment seemed to vanish, Owen pulled his hand out of Amelia's.

"Owen." She called in a low, barely there voice. When he didn't show signs of hearing her, her hand flew to his cheek, thumb gently caressing the tight muscles underneath. "You need help. Serious help and – and I don't necessarily mean a therapist, which isn't a bad idea either, but I mean, you need to get better. For you."

"Are we breaking up?"

His voice was a punch to her gut, painful and hard, even though it was nothing like that. Owen sounded scared, terrified even, bordering on panic and pressing against her hand in a submissive and entirely unowen way.

Amelia smiled sweetly. "No, of course not. It would be very hypocritical of me to end things because you're a little screwed up. I get that, I just can't be there for you, for that. I need to hold myself together if I want to be there for you."

Owen nodded fervently and held his hand out to Amelia. It was subtle, it looked like the half-hearted gesture a scared child might do, it was a bridge, a chance, a breach in the wall. Amelia took a step forward and, instead of taking his hand, pressed herself against him, wrapping her free arm tightly around him.

"You need to talk to Riggs, figure this thing out. I know you don't want to talk to me, but talk to him. You don't need to be friends or anything, just… you're hurting yourself too much. If you do want to talk I'm here, though," she smiled as she felt tears slide down her cheeks. "I promise I can shut up long enough for you to say something."

She felt him vibrate against her, his lips stretching against her hair, his head nodding against hers. "Maybe find some kind of support group or something. I have meetings and it helps, maybe you need something like that. You worked for a while with veterans, maybe there you can find someone who can help you."

He held her a little tighter with every word and Amelia hoped she was doing the right thing. "I feel so helpless some times. I can't help you and you shut me out completely and it hurts so much." As she felt him pull away a little she hastily wiped her tears before looking into his eyes. "I know I do it too – shut you out – and I know I've hurt you, so you know how I feel."

Cupping her cheek, wiping her tears with his thumb, he nodded, not trusting his words to form a coherent thought.

"Owen you have a disorder, you're sick." Amelia said seriously while she had Owen's full attention, but as the seriousness of it came crashing down, she tilted her head and smiled through the tears welling up in her eyes. "Just like me."

The unintended joke broke through them and Owen pulled her back squeezing her hard, not able to better express his feelings. "What a pair." He breathed, chocking back a laugh.

They stayed like that a while, absorbing each other's energy, leaning into each other's comfort, letting the heavy words settle around them. It was a few minutes later when Amelia suddenly pulled back, wiping her face, running her hands through her hair.

"I promised Meredith I'd pick up Zola and Bailey," she peeked at his watch. "Twenty minutes ago."

Owen frowned, suddenly feeling a little guilty, retreating his hand and watch closer to his body. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Owen." Amelia put a hand on his chest. "I'm glad we talked. I want you to be better and it should be something you do for yourself, not for me." She chuckled. "I can be your prize, but not your goal."

He nodded, needing a few seconds to fully understand her girl talk. "And I'm here. Always. I'm putting myself back together as well."

"So?" Owen asked hesitantly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Amelia smiled at him, the dimple on her cheek coming out to his utter delight. She quickly grabbed her purse and leaned up to kiss him on the lips, leaving him a little stunned. "So, I have to pick up the kids. Maybe you can come to dinner one night, Uncle Owen?"


End file.
